the garage man tonight. I shall be aloof and mature.’
‘You’ll be, I know, what the situation demands – what the Club, and I, expect of you.’
‘Only if you promise to be passionately loving afterwards. I want a simply enormous reward.’
‘But I might not feel in a very rewarding mood.’
‘I shall make love to you with immense dignity and sternness. When you look up, you will see the worn visage of an elderly bureaucrat, wearing an expensive black hat.’
‘You will be the loser. You will find nothing in your arms but a Permanent Undersecretary.’
*
Out of the dark park came a sibilant whistling. Footsteps shuffled over the cobbles of the yard.
‘So it’s you, is it,’ said Beaufort. ‘Fancy that! Found your uncle and aunt yet?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Lolly, giving a weary smile as if to suggest that he had long since reached the limits of search. ‘Nice car,’ he said, peering at the sports model. ‘Nice car,’ he said, turning to Dr Towzer’s. ‘Which one?’
‘The M.D .’
Lolly sighed, and untied some half-rotted string at the foot of his trouser-legs. Out of each leg slid a licence-plate. ‘And Mr Brown said this was for you,’ he said, handing Beaufort a small sack designated as self-raising flour.
‘Thank you. Do thank him.’
Lolly studied the doctor’s car for some moments and then said: ‘The old plates are still on.’
‘That’s right. You have to take them off before you put the new ones on.’
‘If you had some wire, I could just tie the new ones over the top of the old ones.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Oh, all right. Got a hammer and chisel?’
‘Here’s a spanner. You undo the nuts.’
‘Takes longer.’
‘Works better.’
Beaufort left the garage and paced the courtyard for a few minutes. When he returned, Lolly was inspecting his work on the rear plate.
‘If I were a policeman,’ said Beaufort, ‘I should feel a dry suspicion that someone had tampered with that car.’
‘Think so?’
‘And now how do you attach the new one?’ asked Beaufort, studying Lolly with deep professional interest.
‘Nothing like wire,’ said Lolly. He bound on the new plate at a raffish angle. ‘See? Now I’ll do the same in front.’ He moved off slowly.
When he had finished, Beaufort said: ‘You know, you remind me of a chap I used to know named Stapleton. He had one of these huge red moustaches.’
‘R.A.F.?’
‘That’s right. If you had one, you’d be the image of him. Like you, he loved machinery. Do come in and meet my father. He owns a huge car firm. He’d give you an important position.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he loves people who have a natural bent.’
‘Well, all right.’
‘If he calls you Stapleton, be sure to play up, won’t you?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he never forgets a face, or thinks he doesn’t, so it’s wiser not to contradict him. He has hundreds of total strangers working for him under faces he thinks he remembers them by. I have often known him to turn an old friend down for a job on the grounds that he is already employing him. I’ll go ahead and make sure he’s free.’
He soon came back and led Lolly to the breakfast-room. The captain was invisible behind the Economist, above which he rose slowly like a model of big industry from the sea of popular imagination: his brows sourly knit, his eyes well-trained to fire bullets at balloons of pure theory. A downward bend at the corners of his lips suggested a man who wrests Nature’s secrets from her depths and, at small profit to himself, hurls them broadcast to the world’s needy. A thoroughly aggrieved expression covered his whole face, as if his life had been an endless struggle against slander and taxation. A cigar-lighter shaped like a Canberra bomber stood at his elbow.
‘Stapleton!’ he barked at once, snapping his fingers. ‘I never forget a face. Whiskers or no whiskers.’
‘He’s known as Lolly Paradise in these parts, father,’ said Beaufort. ‘Nephew
‘You’ll be, I know, what the situation demands – what the Club, and I, expect of you.’
‘Only if you promise to be passionately loving afterwards. I want a simply enormous reward.’
‘But I might not feel in a very rewarding mood.’
‘I shall make love to you with immense dignity and sternness. When you look up, you will see the worn visage of an elderly bureaucrat, wearing an expensive black hat.’
‘You will be the loser. You will find nothing in your arms but a Permanent Undersecretary.’
*
Out of the dark park came a sibilant whistling. Footsteps shuffled over the cobbles of the yard.
‘So it’s you, is it,’ said Beaufort. ‘Fancy that! Found your uncle and aunt yet?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Lolly, giving a weary smile as if to suggest that he had long since reached the limits of search. ‘Nice car,’ he said, peering at the sports model. ‘Nice car,’ he said, turning to Dr Towzer’s. ‘Which one?’
‘The M.D .’
Lolly sighed, and untied some half-rotted string at the foot of his trouser-legs. Out of each leg slid a licence-plate. ‘And Mr Brown said this was for you,’ he said, handing Beaufort a small sack designated as self-raising flour.
‘Thank you. Do thank him.’
Lolly studied the doctor’s car for some moments and then said: ‘The old plates are still on.’
‘That’s right. You have to take them off before you put the new ones on.’
‘If you had some wire, I could just tie the new ones over the top of the old ones.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Oh, all right. Got a hammer and chisel?’
‘Here’s a spanner. You undo the nuts.’
‘Takes longer.’
‘Works better.’
Beaufort left the garage and paced the courtyard for a few minutes. When he returned, Lolly was inspecting his work on the rear plate.
‘If I were a policeman,’ said Beaufort, ‘I should feel a dry suspicion that someone had tampered with that car.’
‘Think so?’
‘And now how do you attach the new one?’ asked Beaufort, studying Lolly with deep professional interest.
‘Nothing like wire,’ said Lolly. He bound on the new plate at a raffish angle. ‘See? Now I’ll do the same in front.’ He moved off slowly.
When he had finished, Beaufort said: ‘You know, you remind me of a chap I used to know named Stapleton. He had one of these huge red moustaches.’
‘R.A.F.?’
‘That’s right. If you had one, you’d be the image of him. Like you, he loved machinery. Do come in and meet my father. He owns a huge car firm. He’d give you an important position.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he loves people who have a natural bent.’
‘Well, all right.’
‘If he calls you Stapleton, be sure to play up, won’t you?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he never forgets a face, or thinks he doesn’t, so it’s wiser not to contradict him. He has hundreds of total strangers working for him under faces he thinks he remembers them by. I have often known him to turn an old friend down for a job on the grounds that he is already employing him. I’ll go ahead and make sure he’s free.’
He soon came back and led Lolly to the breakfast-room. The captain was invisible behind the Economist, above which he rose slowly like a model of big industry from the sea of popular imagination: his brows sourly knit, his eyes well-trained to fire bullets at balloons of pure theory. A downward bend at the corners of his lips suggested a man who wrests Nature’s secrets from her depths and, at small profit to himself, hurls them broadcast to the world’s needy. A thoroughly aggrieved expression covered his whole face, as if his life had been an endless struggle against slander and taxation. A cigar-lighter shaped like a Canberra bomber stood at his elbow.
‘Stapleton!’ he barked at once, snapping his fingers. ‘I never forget a face. Whiskers or no whiskers.’
‘He’s known as Lolly Paradise in these parts, father,’ said Beaufort. ‘Nephew
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